


tessellate

by squishyflamingo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is sustained by swallowing sleep, nurtured by the volume of its lack, and only restful at the pinnacle close. He is reverse engineered to something like the star-stuff he has deleted. Sherlock is a bright star in darkness, further illuminated by one John H. Watson, just on the edge of his orbit.</p><p>Just so...out of reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Combinations

**Author's Note:**

> This entire story has been written since October, but I was too nervous to try and tackle John&Sherlock in a full-fledged BBC Sherlock world. I tried to get them right, I really did - I still have my doubts - but after watching series 3's His Last Vow I had to type it up. I just have this need for outpouring my Sherlock feelings, so I apologize for this OOC, un-beta'd and un-britpicked emotional vomit! Please, if you do enjoy it it's all the merrier!

_There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. - **Anais Nin**_

 

If the late Mr. Hudson hadn't been executed for his crimes the next most appropriate sentence would have been exiling him to the inner borders of Florida state for the rest of his natural life. It had been some time since John had become acclimated to the Middle East's arid temperatures, but when he and Sherlock arrived at Southwest Florida International Airport the current forecast was sorely testing the ex-army doctor's limits.

 

He tilted his head back in the mid-morning sunlight after they'd gotten their luggage from baggage claim, absorbing a bit of vitamin D that his homeland often lacked, then noticed (of course) Sherlock was rolling himself right along to the rental service building a scant few yards ahead on a mission.

 

 _Probably afraid he'll start to sizzle if he lingers too long in one place, or catch an airborne disease_ , John thought wryly, allowing himself to undo the top buttons of his oxford, letting his hair down as it were. A huff passed his lips before it could be stopped, though thankfully more out of fond irritation than anger.

 

And it could have very easily been anger.

 

Sherlock may have been to multiple parts of North and South America while he was away (dead), but this was John's first time. 

 

Per the instruction of one Mycroft Holmes, but John pretended like it was solely his choice they'd come here. Even if he'd thought of somewhere like Hawaii, where humidity didn't make skin fuse with clothe. That it may have been the rather strenuous, tenuous and...wholly unexpected way Sherlock had come alive back into his life coalescing into this moment. 

 

Reducing John Hamish Watson to the denouement of a dramatic romance by grasping the fucking berk by those pretty curls, wanting blood, but also wanting flesh, pulse, finding all he needed when his lips had pressed so hard into Sherlock Holmes's the thrum and tang of his life force leapt up to soothe him as once reliable wrists had betrayed him.

 

_Yes, I'm alive John, I'm real, I'm sorry._

 

This instant, this side of the pond, this place – _irrelevant,_ as the consulting detective himself would say. Their months long unresolved issues could once more put on the back burner. They were here for a job, not to finally suss out the kiss-that-supposedly-never-was, though if he could John would like to take that to his own grave if it meant he and Sherlock could continue to just _be_.

 

_Keep cracking on, then._

 

He found Sherlock in the rental building at a kiosk being helped. With profound sixth sense the younger man reached out, almost slapping John in the face and sending him atop his bag arse over tit. John leaned back just in time. “Bloody hell, your mobile is in your right hand!”

 

“I need your license, John, so we can both drive the vehicle,” Sherlock answered tightly, the agent assisting him trying desperately to look 100% customer service friendly and not like the fear of God was wrought in him. (John had a fleeting and amusing recollection of some Jack Whitehall clip a work mate e-mailed him about ridiculous American customer service. He tried, but barely, maintained to seem remorseful.)

 

The kid wasn't crying, so it was a start. The day was young yet, the ex-army doctor reasoned as he dug out his wallet. “I never told you I got my-”

 

“You saved and took lessons in preparation to assist your mother to her oncologist appointments after you moved back to -” but that is where the consulting detective snapped his mouth shut with an audible _click_ , trying to reassert nonchalance as fast as possible, like he'd never started speaking at all.

 

Right. They could avoid the reunion kiss until York Abbey finished restoration (ie _never_ ), but his friend (person, whatever) somehow brought up his mother's traumatizing bought with ovarian cancer and sudden passing like the fucking weather.

 

He rubbed the fingertips of his left hand together, tongue darting across a dry mouth, shoving the rectangle of plastic at him.

 

The rental agent's eyes widened briefly at the brief crackle of tension before beaming widely and immediately immersing himself in the task of putting John's information in.

 

So maybe he was choosing to be a bit angry.

 

“I'm driving first.”

 

\- - - 

 

And he did. They rented a sat-nav; Sherlock commandeered it to punch in the address of where they'd be put up for the duration of their investigation and John tried very, very hard to distract himself with the radio.

 

_\--Being me and only me, feeling scared to breathe...If you leave me then I’ll be afraid of everything - that makes me anxious, gives me patience, calms me down –_

 

No.

 

_I jumped the gun, so sure you’d split and run, ready for the worst before the damage was done...Oh. Ooh. Ooh, ooh. The storm never came - or it never was - didn’t know getting lost in the blue; it meant I wound up losing you. Welcome to the inner workings of my mind, so dark and foul I can't disguise--_

 

_**Christ-** _

 

“Thank God,” John settled comfortably into the driver's seat of the luxury Mercedez Benz (approved, courtesy of the British Government) when he found the beginning chords of a nice bluesy sounding rock song, “was beginning to think a Doctor Who villain took over my console.” Hands ten and two he shifted a bit, making certain he kept right of the street on the straightaway and when the monotone sat-nav voice told him to turn.

 

_Well I’m so above you, and it’s plain to see, but I came to love you anyway - so you pulled my heart out, and I don’t mind bleeding any old time you keep me waiting, waiting, waiting. Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting, oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting; I’m a lonely boy--_

 

Sherlock jabbed the radio power button hard enough to fracture the distal phalanx of his pointer finger or shove the button into the console itself. The line of his back sat rigidly in the luxury seat, long limbs and arms crossed in excellent mimicry of a toddler in a strop. 

 

This wasn't going to be an easy favor at all. John's previous sentiment toward a favorable recon for the elder Holmes sibling was dashed like very fine, beautiful teacup. He didn't even have Mrs. H or Greg for damage control. The silence stretched out another few, eternity-length beats until he murmured, “Could you run down everything with me again?” 

 

At first it didn't seem as if Sherlock was going to bite, staring resolutely out the window as he watched endless clear blue firmament flash past, studying the foreign flora and fauna. The dichotomy of one Sherlock Holmes, especially after his 3-year-sabbatical-from-the-land-of-the-living, had shifted tremendously yet also stayed very much the same. His manner remained often detached, caustic, frank – but he was more aware and could see the bigger social cue picture and not just his selectively deductive one. He was still the man John knew with a bit (of something) extra he'd never gotten to experience.

 

It remained to be seen if this was good or not. This _change_.

 

A bit later the consulting detective's deep baritone rumbled, “Thomas Beales, aged 38-years-old, British born, previously involved in illegal arms dealing as well as possible human trafficking - he escaped to America, tagged by Mycroft's CIA liaison as becoming involved with a dangerous international wildlife trade in Fort Myers, utilizing harbors for quick import and export. Still a very vain, meticulous man he opted not to defect to South America entirely because it was, according to reliable sources, 'beneath him.'” Here Sherlock snorted, mien shifting to a sort of sardonic amusement that had John reacting similarly.

 

They noticed the old, cozy pattern return between themselves but it did not drop, merely waning just so.

 

John took a deep breath, urging Sherlock on.

 

“Currently his two newest hot spots are close to what may be his headquarters; Sanibel Island and Marcos Island. A rare case of melanistic bobcat in high demand as well as red puma. Unfortunately for him Florida is one of America's most strict and protective preservation states...We may have competition for extraction.”

 

“Yeah, they may actually EXECUTE him.” John remembered one conservationist he'd shagged during FY1 at St. Bart's – he'd been way too pissed (plus extremely interested in her claim of doing ballet for 13 years) to notice two dogs, a chinchilla, three finches and a cat cheering him on at the foot of the bed. 

 

The next day he hadn't been entirely sure the scratches on his body were just from her. She was arrested for a synchronized blitz outside of a testing facility up North – just before he was deployed.

 

If nothing else he could claim to have dodged more than one _proverbial_ bullet in his youth. Har har.

 

Fuck's sake. 

 

A possible gang war between illegal wildlife smugglers and conservationists just so Mycroft could have this bloke. If anyone could do it though, it'd be Sherlock. They could do this, even if they weren't on home turf.

 

Sherlock hadn't apologize in any manner on his earlier faux pas, but anytime John tried catching his expression out of his peripheral the last leg of the journey his usual bored, unaffected demeanor had waned into, dare he think, contrition.

 

 

Sherlock was sending a check-in text to his brother outside the car, hip relaxed on the boot, while John cupped his hands around his face and continued to stare in transfixed disbelief at the palatial beachfront building he'd pulled up in.

 

The ex-army doctor double-checked the sat-nav twice, almost had Sherlock repeat the address 4 times (the consulting detective had all but enunciated the numbers and street name by then as if to a small, underdeveloped child that needed euthanasia, or help of natural selection). When they'd come over the top of the short bridge connecting Fort Myers to Fort Myers Beach John had sort of fallen in love with the kitschy and happily decorated “downtown” area, filled with obvious tourist corner stores, off-licenses, bars. He'd thought Mycroft had gotten them an inconspicuous little condo or something of the like, similar to those that littered up and down Estero Boulevard. When he'd pulled up to the rental property office practically ensconced in palms to get their keys that cemented his guess.

 

God, he'd been so wrong. Just leave deducing to Holmes, Watson.

 

Villa Belvedere was a 4-story Mediterranean-inspired beauty, privately gated with stairs up to a high arch over the front door, the exterior creamy Yorkshire pudding in colour. Simple wrought iron balconies graced the second(?) floor, and from where he was he could see every floor also had curved, gorgeous open windows.

 

He started to perspire nervously at even guessing how much a night this place cost and why they'd been given a villa for a week that could have housed a couple of families let alone a pair of men. He peered at Sherlock over his headrest, the bastard not batting an eye, so John recomposed himself before getting out to grab their belongings. The prat was going to wrangle his laptop bag and leave the rest to him anyhow.

 

He toted them, shoving down the retractable handle into Sherlock's overnight case, hauling it with his right arm, his duffel slung over the left. The younger man finally joined him up the stairs, keys in hand, letting them through without further ado.

 

The entryway opened into a pleasing circular shape, floors suspiciously resembling white marble with a halo of mosaic waves inlaid around the outer ledge. 

 

If he were a young woman between 20-30 this would have been a getaway dream come true. Mary would have adored it; nabbed a room immediately for her painting. Mostly he was still trying not to be simultaneously sick and painfully bemused.

 

“We had...appropriate accommodations, but owing to unforeseen circumstances this was the only nearby facilitation.” Sherlock scooped up his laptop bag without another by your leave, then set up base camp to the right of the entryway and what looked like an eating area, or a breakfast nook – whatever it bloody was because there was a kitchen island as well as a connected bar. 

 

John put his hands on his hips and glared it into being acceptably middle class.

 

Fat chance in hell.

 

“At ease, we're not at Buckingham,” the (sort of again) consulting detective rumbled as he grouped his portable mini string theory from the dossier he was provided, but when his colleague (friend, yes, that...) continued standing in the middle of the living area like a Victorian footman that just walked in on the household's ladyship while bathing he scrounged up a mite of patience. 

 

“Mycroft personally knows the owners that rent out. We really had no other alternative at this point in the season...if it helps, I did turn down the maid. And I can take the master bedroom.”

 

“Haha,” John muttered, but he eased up on his parade stance, which (though he'd never tell) eased Sherlock's own malaise. He thought that was that, though upon further inspection Sherlock was looking at him. An oceanic tide swallowing him up that had nothing to do with deduction, or prying apart.

 

“John-”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock's mouth twisted just as John's nose scrunched up, grown men that still couldn't communicate properly at the best of times. 

 

The soldier who had almost died for his country, contemplated death because of loneliness, had shot someone without question to keep a mad man alive and the mad man that had painfully accepted his loneliness, then died for those few he loved.

 

What a pair.

 

“Did you tell Mary you were coming here?”

 

John actually felt a lurch in his chest, having not expected that at all. Something about his (unprecedented, out-of-character, hysterical) kiss, his late mother – that oddly all seemed important in comparison to Mary and him never getting married. Or, quite literally, her breaking it off during the actual big day. They'd stayed in touch, little tête-à-tête on the odd Sunday afternoon, but he'd tried so hard and loved her so much despite Sherlock steamrolling back into his life that it was just another betrayal that he'd forgiven, but this time, just couldn't let go.

 

Even if it was for his 'best interest'. 

 

He'd gone through the stages of mourning their relationship, of course – no longer waking to the sleep crease of a pillow on her rosy cheek, the affirmation of their shared “I love you”s, the grounding of her solidarity during his frustration.

 

Somehow, through all of that and his own reluctance, John had been sure Sherlock would drag him through the coals about the lip-lock sooner than mentioning one iota about Mary.

 

Sherlock and her had gotten on though like a house on fire, hadn't they? She'd matched him nearly wit for wit from the get go. The prat had complained in normal instances during their marriage planning only because most of it had been foisted on him last minute. Never once did he forget Mary's name or mention anything about her weight gain from stress-eating before walking down the aisle (even John had noticed, but damned if he cared fuck-all – that was the woman he'd been wanting to share the rest of his life with in any form).

 

In fact, when she'd been holed up in the bridal suite Sherlock Holmes was one of the first names she'd begged for. Of course John could have given into his hurt and anger (rightfully so), naively concluding there was an affair going on. 

 

Never.

 

No matter what Sherlock or Mary had done to him, just, _never_. They'd have never done that.

 

John sat across from the younger man, boneless with hard-hitting jet-lag. The table between them was a yawning chasm as much as an unneeded barrier. He pinched the bridge of his nose, some sort of answer or brushoff on the tip of his tongue.

 

Then the strangeness was taken a step further when Sherlock popped up in his manic way and announced he was going to see if anything resembling an electric kettle existed in this place.

 

“I highly doubt it, their idiotic passion of atrocious _iced tea_ and frankly repugnant overindulgence of coffee--oh...”

 

John turned in his chair, threw his head back and laughed so hard it physically hurt in a way that drowned out all other aches that ailed him as Sherlock held an electric kettle with a rare, genuine expression akin to befuddlement in the kitchen.

 

_It will eventually be alright. One day. Even if it won't._


	2. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though it took me ages I think updating two stories is pretty good!
> 
> And thank you for anyone that gave kudos or bookmarked this story for one chapter that's been dangling for a lifetime...
> 
> Warning: Not beta'd or Britpicked, but please enjoy! <3

Sherlock took his time playing up the foreigner on holiday with the attendant that allowed access to Tigertail Beach. He was an older gentleman, perhaps mid-sixties, but he had no qualms over a (supposedly) same-gender couple; neither did he give them a ticker tape parade.

 

John laid it on thick with his usual charming routine, and the older man finally advised them to stay clear of any blocked off areas on the outer waterfront strip as the conservation committee of Marco Island had marked where sea turtles had come in to lay their eggs and bury them in the sand.

 

Bingo.

 

They parked their rental and John demanded Sherlock put another layer of sunblock on, as his morning application had rubbed off a bit, and the big baby relented when John smacked his already pink suffused cheek pointedly. Sherlock even rucked up his polo (that he complained about on the hour as being the most lazy article of clothing ever designed by idiots) to do a touch up on his back.

 

John’s fingers twitched over the juxtaposition of unblemished skin and smoothed scar tissue criss-crossing Sherlock’s back - his visceral story that John had not given him permission to fully verbalize yet.

 

The younger man’s shoulders stiffened, then relaxed slightly when John squeezed the back of his neck in mute assurance.

 

_We’ll deal with that later. Not today._

 

A little hut next to the car park advertised some grilled food, and before John could ask if Sherlock wanted some nibbles the prat was swanning off down the little boardwalk path marked with a guide on the local plantlife as well as a warning against live shelling.

 

John frowned when his stomach gave a particularly loud rumble, right on cue. If they were cutting into lunch AND dinner they were going to one of those expensive Doc Ford restaurants from the detective series he’d started reading.

 

Sherlock did not know this yet. He could deduce it...

 

He hauled all of their beach things, which was just sun block and two towels for show, and the doctor had a private smile to himself as he watched the backs of Sherlock’s pale, knobby legs in the distance. Like chopsticks…

 

When the pair reached the end of the path John surveyed the placid lagoon before them, watching little tethered kayaks and paddleboards bobbing lackadaisically at the docks to their left, no one in sight because of the off season.

 

But no beach. No turtle eggs. No reason why they’d try to recon information here regarding Beales.

 

He turned to address Sherlock just as a woman, maybe Mrs. Hudson’s age, emerged from the brush on the opposite bankside with a floppy straw hat atop her peppered hair and an insatiable smile on her chestnut face as she regarded them lingering at the bank of the lagoon.

 

“Hello dears!” she hailed as if to old friends, and then John jerked forward as she kept moving right into the body of water between them without further ado, up to her waist, with a blanket held over her head,“The gentleman that let you in didn’t tell you about this, did he? That rascal. You just come right across here, you may feel a fish or two swim by, and don’t mind the clicking you’ll hear further ahead - it’s fiddler crab season! They’re more afraid of you, I promise.” Water and seaweed sloughed off her modest little one piece when she joined them back on dry land.

 

Her deep-set eyes twinkled at John’s gobsmacked expression. “Have fun.”

 

He thanked her with a lopsided grin, turning to the consulting detective, but once again he was already 20 steps ahead as he’d gotten rid of his polo entirely (his chest would need re-application now) and was making his way like a thing possessed, quipping “You’ll catch flies quicker than our man with you gawping like that John.”

 

John put his tongue to his bottom lip as a frisson excitement hit his stomach, and took off his own shirt, folding it into their bag, lifted that overhead and made his way.

 

Just like the woman had said a susurrus (similar to one of those little shell wind chimes he’d seen back at a gift shop in Marco during his morning stroll today) fills his senses after crossing, when suddenly there the little buggers are, coalescing back together like one red and orange cloud as the others up ahead let Sherlock through. Sherlock never slows down for anything, but he’s put on the brakes while watching one little fiddler crab in particular seem to panic and burying himself in the sand at Sherlock’s feet.

 

Warmth cocooned around John’s heart when Sherlock actually huffed something resembling a genuine laugh.

 

“They’re moving together, like a school of fish. Or almost...like a swarm of bees,” Sherlock whispered, rather unnecessarily, as if this would break some sort of magic, even though the consulting detective knew what the fiddlers were doing was instinctual.

 

A few more minutes passed, their trek through the foliage wordless, allowing that sweet sound of the critters scuttling to guide them to one of the most pristine little beaches John had ever seen, and he’d seen some stunning beaches.

 

Marco Island was full of private shores in the of back condos and bungalows equally as grand as their temporary habitation on Estero Boulevard, but this was nothing like it, untouched and unclaimed. He had dropped the bag to let the ocean tide greet him, gasping at two solitary dolphins in the distance crest the horizon like silver moon crescents in the daylight.

 

“Cor, Sherlock - did you see that?”

 

He half-expects the younger man to be on the trail of the nests like a bloodhound, but knobbly feet are buried deep in the white sands as an anchor and those verdigris eyes are half-mast in a contemplative zen very unlike his Mind Palace.

 

Sherlock Holmes...is taking it all in. And not just for factual analysis and archival means of easy retrieval. He is savoring it, sea salt air cloying over his senses. He’s happy.

 

**_“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?”_ **

****

**_“I don't know.”_ **

****

**_“Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate.”_ **

 

Little public school boy, on holiday with his parents and too-good-for-pretend older brother in Cornwall, maybe wandered off to the cliffs of Land’s End, mentally charting the big, big world around him beyond the mundane corners of Britannia.

 

John is momentarily stunned as the image hits his solar plexus, bereft to realize the extent of Sherlock’s humanity, that he must have always been a unique little wallflower, and how had he not known when he asked Sherlock to be his best man? Given these passed almost five years you would presume that John would be an expert in knowing and forgiving the consulting detective. He’d been _so_ forgiven, Christ, he’d always forgive Sherlock…

 

“Seventy-one percent of the Earth’s surface and ninety-five percent of its depths unexplored. It boggles the mind that something so enormous can be so unknown.” Sherlock unearthed his feet with a few toe-wiggles and branched off back down the south tip of the water’s edge as if he’d not said something so beatific and raw.

 

John flexed his fingers, swallowing roughly, and is caught up to him in a few strides. Right, back to business. “Is that one up ahead?” A small neon orange flag poked up a bit from a sand mound and upon closer inspection it, in fact, blocked off what was definitely a buried nest by the long, undisturbed divots left from a sea turtle’s flipper.

 

“Very astute of you,” said the bushes in front of them, and to John’s credit he did not immediately punch out whoever had spoken, and Sherlock blinked slowly from his hunched over position examining the nest.

 

It appeared that Florida natives enjoyed a part-time hobby pretending they were roughing it by strolling through scrub.

 

This time, however, a young woman popped out looking like Brooke Shields a la Emmeline in Blue Lagoon (when John was 9 and absolutely smitten with Brooke Shields), complete with wind-swept dirty blonde mane and skin highlighted by lots of sun, lean like a gazelle, but wearing a bikini top and cargos instead of completely starkers.

 

It was sweet in a nostalgic way.

 

“Do you have a permit to touch those?” the girl needled with a shrewd once-over of the two when they remained silent, a sardonic smile in place.

 

Or not-so sweet.

 

Sherlock transformed his features into a facsimile of the same expression, his voice like lava, beautifully bright but burning.

 

“I do apologize, my partner and I are very interested in the wildlife here and unfortunately there was no guide available at the little tourist kiosk near the car park. Would that be you, miss?”

 

John barely restrained his guffaw at how utterly posh Sherlock sounded and tried to look like a good vacationing husband on holiday. How time had also changed him, once so vehemently against the assumptions toted upon Sherlock and his personal relationship by media moguls and society, but these days he just could not be bothered. There’d been much to think about between kissing Sherlock that fateful day of his return and being left at the altar.

 

They both tag-team killing her with kindness, Sherlock’s temperament evened out from yesterday with some rest and tea, and it works wonders to disarm her defenses. She cannot be older than 25, but she does not tell them anything other than her name, which is Jay, and that she is in Uni volunteering for the Marco Island Sea Turtle Conservation.

 

It’s very easy for someone looking to make a quick buck to scoop up a nest and sell the eggs for making turtle soup, after the state ban put turtle fisherman out of business in 2009.

 

John’s nose wrinkles at the thought of being a turtle fisherman for a living and knows no matter how simple he thinks he could manage the rest of his life a simple life is actually a pipe dream for him.

 

Jay goes on to hint if they are really interested in the immediate vicinities local conservation and wildlife they should take a trip to speak with Brian, the owner of an eatery named the Island Cow (this makes John snort) on Sanibel Island, who is a long-time nature-lover and amatuer expert with a co-written book they can purchase at the eatery itself. Or Joe, at the Sanibel-Captiva Conservation Foundation where she used to work, who is most likely more unavailable.

 

Meanwhile Sherlock’s eyes were practically black with how long they’d  been absorbing, unblinking, since Jay mentioned the robbery of turtle eggs. His mind must be going a mile a minute at this point, casting back into his Mind Palace for anything in Beales’s dossier regarding that for part of a lead, then he abruptly comes back to Earth thanking Jay profusely for her advice and if they go see anyone on Sanibel they’ll say “hello” for her.

 

They bid each other goodbye, the men going back north up the strip to where John left their things, and Sherlock explodes into observation mode.

 

“Her fingertips are well-manicured, but there’s torn hangnails from nervous biting on her fingers - I almost thought it was from her recently quitting smoking, but her jitters were not the normal sort from going cold turkey recently. She hasn’t smoked in ages. It seemed more that she was much too high-strung talking to two older males, but from how we very successfully emulated a couple she let her guard down.

 

I can’t be certain yet if it is some of Beales’s men that have been to Tigertail Beach, but someone has. We’ll keep an eye and ear out here, but it would not hurt to go to the people she has mentioned.”

 

John smiled at his partner, watching him make footprints in the newly wet sand, then as a bit of flotsam brushed his ankles Sherlock absently reached down to pick up what looks like sea glass and pocketed it, ivory foamy bubbles whisking the prints away, back into the deep to erase his journey.

 

John suddenly experienced the urge to push him and bury him in that cool, wet sand with his mind, body and soul so he can never disappear again, but instead he quietly leaned down to knife his hand through the water, launching a handful into Sherlock’s unsuspecting face when he turned to address his friend.

 

“You--”

 

“Ah, yes, that was me. Caught red-handed. You’re good at that, you should be a detective.”

 

“You…”

 

“That’s a very becoming shade of irritated, by the way.”

 

“-utter TWAT.”

 

Truth be told this may have been the first time Sherlock had ever called him a twat. He also learned very quickly that Sherlock and Mycroft used to play a very dirty game of dunking as children (the competitive aspect makes sense), and that despite his past military experience Sherlock was a veteran expert.

 

 


End file.
